


i'll use you as a makeshift gauge (of how much to give and how much to take)

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Series: i lost love, but i found you [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluffiness, M/M, Nostalgia, a slight tinge of regret or angst, both of them missing Gary so so much, missing Gary, relationship building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: It's... not a one-time thing, falling into bed together.Jamie and David's relationship grows to fill in the cracks Gary's left behind.





	i'll use you as a makeshift gauge (of how much to give and how much to take)

It’s not a one-time thing.

 

The next time is after a show. David invites Jamie over for drinks. He’s still not sure what it is that Jamie wants, or what he needs. He’s got Carlsberg in the fridge, so if drinks means drinks… that’s okay, too. It if means more than drinks, though… he’s got condoms and lube, too, and he’d cleaned, made sure there were no dirty briefs on the ground, and set up spare towels in the bathroom.

 

“Sure thing, pretty boy.” Jamie agrees casually when asked, throwing David a little grin that shouldn’t affect him nearly as much as it does.

 

“You say that. It’s almost as if you don’t know you’re gorgeous, too,” he says, looking Jamie straight in the eyes. He smiles a little, and then he walks away before Jamie can respond.

 

Jamie flushes a little, pleased at the unexpected compliment, but watches him go, watches the straight back and the way his arms swing by his sides as he walks.

 

David turns back. “Come on, then, Jaybird!” He gestures towards him, and Jamie stumbles forward, heart fluttering stupidly at the new nickname.

 

They sit in David’s car, and Jamie doesn’t know where to put his hands. He wants to touch David, somehow, but he doesn’t know…

 

He rests his forearm on the center console, fingertips dangling just a few inches behind the gearshift. David drives with one hand, and the other arm comes and rests next to Jamie’s, in between their seats.

 

Jamie’s heart is racing, and he swallows, trying to resist the urge to look at David’s face. He takes a deep breath and nudges David’s little finger with his own. David looks up at him and lifts his arm up.

 

 _Fuck_. He’s fucked it up. The best friend he has in his life right now (and that’s sad enough on its own—why did Stevie have to go?), and he’s gone and done this.

 

But then, David reaches across and rests his hand on Jamie’s leg, low enough on his thigh that it could almost be construed as friendly if it hadn’t stayed there.

 

“Is this—“ David asks, turning to look at him.

 

Jamie nods, and covers David’s hand with his own.

 

David’s suddenly glad that he’d done a cursory check of his room for dirty laundry that morning.

 

Jamie’s all over him, as soon as they get past the front door of his flat. He kisses him, and this time there’s no hesitation.

 

David whispers Jamie’s name as his hands slide onto David’s chest, unbuttoning his coat with nimble fingers. David lets Jamie slide it off his shoulders, and there’s a moment where the thought flickers across his mind. It’s the same thought he every time when someone’s showing interest in him. _Is this because of who I am?_

 

He dismisses the thought instantly. Jamie couldn’t care less how many underwear modeling gigs he’d booked.

 

 _Is this because of who I’m_ not _?_

 

That one is harder to let go of. Jamie’s lonely, he can see it in him sometimes. That’s okay, though. David’s lonely, too, sometimes.

 

“Why do you want me?” The words slip out, almost against his will, and Jamie’s fingers still on David’s tie.

 

Jamie takes a tiny step back, and David regrets saying anything at all. But Jamie’s still got hunger in his eyes, and he’s still looking at him like he wants it. But he’ll answer the question first.

 

“I’m attracted to you,” he says finally, “I know _everyone’s_ attracted to you, Davey-boy, I get it, you’re... _you_. But I thought we—Christ, this is going to sound stupid—I thought we had a _thing_. I dunno, I was flirting, and you were flirting back, and you make me feel this thing in my stomach…”

 

“You _like_ me,” David realizes, grinning wolfishly. “You want me because you like me.”

 

“Yeah, I guess that’s it. I like you, Dave. Now can we pick up where we left off, or have you got more questions?” Jamie looks almost embarrassed, as though he hadn’t quite realized his feelings until David had told him.

 

David laughs and steps forward, wrapping Jamie back in his arms. They kiss and Jamie almost doesn’t notice David slipping his coat off, but then David’s warmer against his chest without the thick wool between them. They’re still kissing, Jamie taking small steps backwards, until he feels something behind his leg and stumbles. David tightens his hold, saving him from falling backwards onto the stairs.

 

“We’re going to break something if I try to get you up the stairs backwards while you’re distracted,” David says, laughing a little. He steps away and shakes his head a little, trying to clear his mind of a Jamie-induced haze.

 

He takes Jamie’s hand and holds it tight as he leads him up the stairs, and as soon as they’re both on level ground, Jamie’s all over him again, olive green Gucci tie thrown carelessly to the floor, and met soon after with Jamie’s navy one, and then two white shirts, fine cotton, buttons forced hastily through buttonholes to make way.

 

Two belts, brown and black, and then suit trousers, carefully pressed creases shot to hell by the way they’re left rumpled on the carpet.

 

“What do you want, Davey-boy? What do you need from me?” Jamie asks, settling his weight neatly on top of David’s on the bed, pressing kisses into his neck.

 

“Anything,” David mumbles, “anything you’ll give me, Jaybird. Please.”

 

Jamie hums and gets up, kissing his way down David’s chest and swiping a tongue over a sensitive nipple, watching it harden with a strange reverence, before using his teeth to pull down David’s boxer briefs.

 

“Lube,” Jamie mumbles, lips high on the inner side of David’s thigh. David whimpers and hands it to him. Jamie bites gently at the sensitive skin, not hard enough to mark, but _fuck_ , it’s nice to know the man knows how to use his teeth, and not just his tongue.

 

He pauses, pulls away for a moment to look at David. “Do—do you have a preference? About whether you give or receive?”

 

“Not with you,” David says, the words rushing over each other to get out. He’s been both, but he’s always found he preferred certain roles with certain people. Jamie is different from that, though. He just wants whatever he can get. It’s too early by far to be this ridiculously honest, but the words are already out and it’s too late to take them back. He bucks his hips a little, trying to nudge Jamie into moving.

 

Jamie sinks back down and licks him slowly, tasting him, even as his fingers slide lower and slip inside to prep him. David wonders how he tastes to Jamie. How he compares to Gary.

 

There’s no escaping the fact that there have been others, in the past, for both of them. Even if Gary hadn’t been Jamie’s first man, someone had to have taught him how to—but it doesn’t matter now. What matters now is that Jamie’s got his lips wrapped around the head of his cock and he’s swiping his tongue over the slit, and David is already leaking precome.

 

He slides another finger in and crooks them just slightly and David arches his back, keening at the sensation. “Right— _there_ —babe, please, I’m ready—“ He’s not, not entirely. He’s not properly stretched out, and it’s been a long time, but if Jamie goes slow and lets him adjust—

 

Jamie seems to understand what he means, though, and pulls off of him with an obscene pop, jerking him a few more times as he slicks himself up and gets ready. He’s just about to push in, when—

 

“Do you want me to wear a condom?” he asks, as if they hadn’t had unprotected sex already.

 

David props himself up on his elbows to look at him.

 

“I’m clean. Are you?” Jamie nods. “Then we’re fine.” Something in Jamie’s eyes softens, and when he leans down for another kiss, it’s softer, more tender than urgent, and it calms David down too, at least until Jamie pushes in.

 

Jamie’s _attentive_ in bed, more than almost anyone David’s ever been with. He picks up on minute changes in David, in the pitch and volume of his moans, in the way he holds onto him, with hands and thighs alike keeping Jamie close. He picks up on the way David shifts his hips on each thrust, trying to guide him to hit the right spot, and starts thrusting a little more to the left so David doesn’t have to, rewarded instantly by a groan.

 

He starts slow, and his fingers are almost hesitant when he’s reaching down to touch David, to stroke the velvet skin of his cock. His hands aren’t _rough_ , really, but neither are they soft and silky smooth. Jamie’s got calluses at the bases of his fingers from lifting weights, but that’s pretty much it. His touch is almost unremarkable, except for the fact that he reads David exceptionally well. They’d left the lamp on, and his sharp, alert eyes interpret every breath, every sigh, every time David closes his eyes and moans his name, and learns how to touch him better. It reminds him of doing the show, almost, the way Jamie picks up on the little things. He prefers Jamie using his skills for this, though.

 

David doesn’t have to tell him to go faster after a few minutes—Jamie just hears his whines, tinged with impatience, and increases his pace. David wraps his arms around him, suddenly desperate for closeness, more than what he’s already getting, and Jamie kisses him, all tenderness, though he finishes by capturing David’s lower lip and grazing his teeth across it. When he tries to pull away, David doesn’t let him. He needs affection during sex. He’s fucked and been fucked without it too many times to let it pass him by when Jamie’s offering.

 

He locks his ankles around Jamie’s hips when he’s about to come, and Jamie grinds against him, mouthing wetly at his neck and jerking him quickly, relishing the sound of David’s orgasm, the loud, high cry that’s accompanied by David tightening his grip on Jamie’s shoulders.

 

Jamie finishes, too, climax wrung out of him by David’s body. He’s careful as he pulls out, kissing David gently when he lets out a sound of discomfort. Jamie lays next to him on the bed, both men naked side by side, the room silent but for the sound of their breathing, slowing back to normal.

 

“Can I stay the night?” Jamie asks softly, turning to face David and using a blunt fingernail to trace the lines and curves of ink on the tattoo over David’s chest.

 

David’s taken aback by the question. “You don’t have to ask, Jaybird. You never have to ask.”

 

Jamie kisses him on the cheek and cleans them up before maneuvering them both under the covers, reaching across David’s body to turn off the lamp. He lays sprawled out across David’s bed, just short of selfish in the amount of space he takes up. He’s unafraid of a cuddle, David learns, when he extends his arm and lets David set his head on his shoulder. His arm is going to be numb in the morning, but he doesn’t seem to care, and David isn’t one to question it when he wants this just as much.

 

Jamie’s shoulder is warm under his cheek, and when he throws an arm over Jamie’s stomach, he senses the scars, the way the skin under his forearm isn’t smooth. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, doesn’t know how Jamie would feel about it, and so he just lets his eyes close, lets his thoughts swirl with colors and images until he’s dreaming about dark hair that lightens and streaks through with grey, dark eyes and keeper’s gloves on his cheeks that fade to drunken youths, kissing in dark corners and hotel rooms, to almost touching in the studio, hands drifting closer as the cameras roll, the way Jamie’s tongue holds onto his name, makes it longer, makes it softer. _Davey-boy, Davey-boy, Davey-boy_

 

They don’t shift much over the course of the night. David’s always been a still sleeper, and while he suspects Jamie is very much the opposite, he can’t exactly move when David’s sleeping on him, so he doesn’t. Jamie doesn’t complain about the lack of blood flow in the morning. After they wake, David notices him squeezing his hand into a fist and relaxing it to get it back to normal, and when he reaches for it, Jamie lets him take hold of his arm and slowly massage the feeling back into it. It’s completely unnecessary—he could’ve sorted it himself—but he lets David take care of it. In the cloud-muddled daylight, Jamie considers him a moment and leans forward to kiss him, fingertips still tingling where they rest on David’s cheek. It’s the first time they’ve kissed during the day, and David _feels_ how important it is, feels how something in the air shifts between them, even if he can’t explain _why_ , exactly.

 

“I’ll make breakfast, if you don’t mind,” Jamie offers.

 

“Perfect,” David says brightly, though he isn’t quite sure—Gary had been an awful cook, and if Jamie’s just the same…

 

He sits at the counter in his kitchen, watching Jamie maneuver around unfamiliar cabinets and rummage through his fridge. He stares at him, wearing a pair of David’s sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He doesn’t exactly have a moral crisis over staring at Jamie Carragher’s ass, but he’s not proud of it, either. He figures he’s allowed, though, after the events of the previous night.

 

 _You never have to ask._ The words flash across his head and he realizes for the first time the invitation implicit in the words. He blames the fucking afterglow, for making him soft. He flushes suddenly, in the middle of eating a breakfast Jamie’s prepared for him while wearing only David’s sweats. He regrets the words for a few seconds, bemoaning the way Jamie makes him reveal more of himself than he’s been in the habit of doing for many years. Then again, he’s never been afraid to chase what he’s wanted.

 

And right now? He wants Jamie.

 

 

\---

 

 

It happens again after that, mostly after shows, or Gary’s matches. Eventually it gets to be most nights. The company is nice, even when they’re too tired to have sex. Jamie never asks if he can stay over again, just takes it for granted, and when they go to Jamie’s place, David doesn’t ask, either.

 

They find a new normal, a tiny little world of their own, in their studio, and both their flats.

 

They watch telly together. Jamie watches panel shows for David’s sake, even _Cats Does Countdown,_ dorky as it is _._ David likes laying his head in Jamie’s lap when they’re watching, unless it’s football. Something about football requires sitting up. Jamie runs his hands through his hair—

 

(Jamie’s better at the words, and David has a surprising knack for the numbers—

 

“I’m sorry I ever thought you were stupid, Becks.”

 

“It’s the blond hair and the smile. Everyone thinks I’m stupid.”

 

“Everyone’s _wrong_ , Davey. Everyone’s wrong about you. You’re brilliant. In so many ways.”

 

David turns and presses a kiss to his denim-clad thigh.)

 

In exchange, David will happily sit through X-Factor. Jamie may or may not use sexual favors to coerce him into voting, and David has no real moral qualms about it. He finds he likes X-Factor rather more than he’d expected to, even without the sex. Though maybe it’s the company.

 

 

\---

 

 

They’re lying in David’s bed, and he’s tracing featherlight patterns across Jamie’s sweat-dampened back, sharing stories about his youth with Gary in between slow, lazy kisses. Jamie burrows his nose into David’s neck and takes a long, deep breath, lungs filling with the spicy scent of Armani cologne. David doesn’t laugh, just kisses Jamie’s hair and idly traces something into Jamie’s back, but Jamie’s distracted, so he doesn’t recognize their number.

 

“Did you love him?” Jamie asks quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to David’s pulse point.

 

“Course I did. Still do, in a way. He’s our Gaz, isn’t he?”

 

Jamie flushes and nods. “It’s hard _not_ to love him, sometimes.”

 

David hums and kisses him and starts telling another story.

 

 

\---

 

The sex is good. David is loathe to admit it, but it’s the best he’s ever had, though maybe it’s not fair to compare drunken hookups with Gary to what he has with Jamie. That doesn’t stop him from wondering where he ranks, in the list of people Jamie’s slept with. They develop little habits, and Jamie carefully catalogs every single one. Blowjobs at David’s place, because he’s got plusher carpet, and it’s easier on the knees. Shower sex at Jamie’s, because he’s got a bigger, fancier shower with one of those rainfall showerheads.

 

Jamie makes breakfast at David’s, because he likes the feeling of it, the small act of making himself at home in a new place, of treating David to breakfast in bed. He makes breakfast at his own place too, because he can’t quite break the habit—Gary’d been an awful cook and set off his smoke alarm a couple times before Jamie’d put a stop to his culinary experiments.

 

 

\---

 

 

The memory of Gary still hangs in the air between them, silent but present nonetheless. It’s only ever the memory of him, though. They don’t hear from him. He screens their calls. Their texts are read, but never responded to. Twitter DMs are sent and never received. He hasn’t posted a picture on Instagram since his first month in charge. They don’t ever stop trying, not entirely, but eventually days, almost _weeks_ go by without either of them sending Gary a text to ask how he’s doing.

 

Jamie calls Phil instead. Phil always picks up the phone, even if he always lies.

 

_Gary’s fine._

_We’re sticking with the plan._

_It’s just taking time._

_It’s the camera—the camera makes him look thinner, he’s still just the same, don’t worry._

 

Jamie’s used to it, though.

 

He lies for Gary, too.

 

 

\---

 

 

They don’t talk about him very much, but they don’t _not_ talk about him, either. It would be pointless and probably stupid to try to ignore him, when his fingerprints are all over their lives, in the way Jamie hangs up his towel after a shower instead of leaving it on the floor, in the way David keeps orange marmalade around, even though neither of them particularly likes it, in the way they’re both careful to line their shoes up after they’ve taken them off and tuck them away.

 

Jamie walks in on David watching Gary’s press conference on his laptop one night. He startles at Jamie’s footsteps, a guilty expression flicking across his face, like a teenager caught watching porn. His hand flies to the top of the laptop, as if to slam it shut, but then he forces himself to relax. Jamie just sighs and settles next to him, leaning against his side, letting the contact reassure them both.

 

“He doesn’t look good, does he?” Jamie observes sadly. “He looks thinner.”

 

“He forgets to eat,” David says quietly. “Loses his appetite before big matches. I used to try to convince him, but he’d just throw it up if it was anything more than a banana or an apple.”

 

“I used to lose sleep. Wouldn’t sleep at all before European nights. I was always wired by the time the sun rose. Not sleeping makes your heart beat faster, did you know that? Coffee only made things worse. Used to get nauseous. Stevie had to drive me home after matches, he wouldn’t trust me at the wheel. He made me go see the doctor eventually, said I was acting like I was on speed or something. The doctor gave me sleeping pills. Eventually I started taking them before every match.”

 

David looks at him, looks into eyes that are the furthest thing from brown. “You remind me of him, sometimes. When it comes to football, mostly. How it—it runs deeper than your blood, almost. Deeper than your bones, even. If you’d played on the same side, I think you would’ve been inseparable, J.”

 

Jamie doesn’t know what to say, really. He’s had the same thought a hundred thousand times. Gary’s said it to him, too. It had been one of their favorite games, and now they’re some of Jamie’s least favorite memories.

_What if you were with us during Istanbul?_

_What if you’d won the league with us?_

_What if you’d kissed me instead of Scholesy?_

_What if we’d started earlier?_

_What if, what if, what if—_

_(And what if you hadn’t **left** me, Gary? What if you’d stayed? What then?)_

 

For a long time, it had felt like his heart had only beat to the rhythm of _what if_.

 

 

But these days, there’s David, and the life he has is enough to stop dwelling on the ones he doesn’t have. He kisses him, and the press conference ends and they put away the laptop, and Jamie goes to sleep wrapped in David’s arms.

 

They still watch Gary’s matches. Jamie’s starting to dread them. They feel like school exams he hasn’t prepared for. Like cup finals when he knows he’s going to lose. Not even wins, on the rare occasion that Valencia actually manage one, make him happy. It’s just relief. Respite. Usually brief.

 

 

\---

 

Jamie’d always called David “pretty boy” after that first day in the makeup chair, to his face and to everyone else, too. The whole crew knew who Jamie meant when he was telling a runner to “go tell pretty boy to hurry up, I’m sure he looks beautiful enough, we have to go on.”

 

After they start sleeping together, it softens a little, and it changes, almost without Jamie noticing.

 

“Katie, where’s my pretty boy?”

 

“Jack, could you send my pretty boy over? I want to run some clips by him.”

 

“Ed—where the _fuck_ is my pretty boy? I thought I saw him with you earlier, but I can’t find him anywhere!”

 

If the crew notice the possessive pronoun in front, or the way Jamie’s mouth always caresses the words, they don’t say anything. When David hears it the first time, his lips quirk upward into a subtle smile.

 

“I’m here, J!” He calls, whenever he finds Jamie terrorizing interns or organizing search parties to look for him. “Don’t worry, Jaybird. I’m here.” Jamie always smiles and waves away the teenagers, striding over towards him with long, steady steps, already gesturing about whatever he wants to talk about.

 

They try going out, getting coffee from a café on the corner. It… doesn’t go well. David’s just a little too famous and a little too good-looking for it. Everyone stares, and one woman looks like she might faint. Jamie, for the first time, feels slightly smug that he’s sleeping with _David Beckham_ , even though that’s not what their relationship is about.

 

(Is it even fair to call it a relationship? They haven’t quite talked about it, but they spend most of their time together. Besides, when it had been him and Gary, they didn’t ever really talk about it, until it ended.

 

But maybe that’s not the best example.)

 

They adjust pretty smoothly after that first time, going to drive-thrus instead, and when David buys them McDonald’s, Jamie gets chips with his burger and they each share them. David likes the taste of salt in Jamie’s mouth, and Jamie takes advantage of it. He works out a little harder and eats more chips.

 

 

\---

 

It’s a few months into their new relationship when Jamie walks into David’s bathroom the morning after a night together, and there’s a new toothbrush sitting on the counter, still in the packaging. It’s got a green handle, and Jamie remembers a few nights before, when he’d been falling asleep and David had asked what his favorite color was. “Green,” he’d mumbled, “like grass.”

 

Jamie isn’t quite sure what it is. It’s a gesture, no question, but of what? Is David just being polite, or does he actually want him to have a drawer? Maybe they’re skipping the drawer step altogether—he and Gary had skipped the drawer step. Maybe Mancs didn’t have the drawer step. Does that mean… does David want him to _move in?_ He half just wants to ask, but if the answer is no, he wouldn’t want to pressure him into saying yes.

 

He looks at the toothbrush for a long moment.

 

He tries to look for some sort of indication, and David never seems to get tired of him being around, or happy to see him go, and they get on really well…

 

But all that could just be politeness. Tolerance. It makes something twist uncomfortably in Jamie’s stomach, to think that maybe David’s just _tolerating_ him. Probably for Gary’s sake, at that.

 

He has no idea what to do, until he realizes. _He’ll_ ask. He’ll ask if _David_ wants to move in with _him_. And if David wants him to live here, he would just say so, and if he’s not ready, he’ll say that, too.

 

They go back to Jamie’s after work the next day, because Jamie says he hasn’t got any clothes at David’s.

 

“You could always wear something of mine,” David teases, flicking him lightly behind the ear, “I like you in my things. Turns me on.”

 

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Or, you could put on something of mine, and I’ll reward you for it. Generously.”

 

“Yeah?” David’s breath hitches a little.

 

“I recorded _Cats Does Countdown_ for you. And _Mock the Week_.”

 

David chuckles and throws an arm around him. “Done.”

 

David’s laying on Jamie’s couch, with his head in Jamie’s lap, pleasantly half-dozing as Jamie chuckles quietly at the telly. He turns it off when it ends and rubs David’s cheek gently to wake him up.

 

“Bedtime, Davey.”

 

“Okay, love.” David groans and sits up.

 

“Come on, old man, let’s go to bed.”

 

“ _Old man_ —what, d’you have a type?” David freezes for a second—it’s not their normal, to bring up Gary in this casual way, to throw him in Jamie’s face like that. Jamie stares back at him for a second.

 

“Maybe I do,” he says lightly.

 

David stills, looking at him for a moment. “I don’t. Have a type, I mean,” he confesses, “I only have… people. Individuals. I didn’t pick you because of him. It was because of you.”

 

Jamie’s insides melt a little, and it’s becoming alarmingly frequent, with David around. He licks his lips, flushing as he sees David’s eyes follow the motion. “Do you wanna move in together?”

 

David blinks. “Took you this long to pick up on the toothbrush, did it?”

 

“I just—I wasn’t sure if you wanted that—wanted _me_ , I guess.”

 

“Oh, _James_ ,” David whispers, suddenly looking very awake, looking at Jamie with a tenderness that disarms him, makes him feel more naked than the first time he’d laid his body on David’s bed and asked if it was okay. “I do want you. I want _you_. Not Gary’s ex. I just want you, and it’s not because you’re convenient. It’s not because of what boxes you check. It’s about who you are.”

 

Jamie leans in and kisses him again, because how can he _not_ , after that kind of speech? What kind of _man_ —

 

“I’ve never known anyone like you,” Jamie confesses, hugging him tight, “and I don’t. I don’t have a type. So you can tell Scholesy and Giggsy they’re completely safe from me.”

 

David laughs into his shoulder and holds him close.

 

“Come live with me, J.” He asks, “I should’ve asked you properly, saved you the wondering.”

 

Jamie smacks his shoulder, though the sting is lost when he kisses him again a second later. “You’re damn right you should’ve. This is exactly the type of half-assed will-you-pick-up-on-my-clues shit Gary would pull. I don’t want mind games with you.”

 

David pulls away, looks him directly in the eyes. “You won’t get mind games. You can ask me anything. I don’t want to lose this. I _want_ you to live with me, I want to—I dunno, it sounds stupid, but I want you to call my home your home. Whether that’s here or at mine, I don’t mind. I’ll move in here, if you like.”

 

Jamie doesn’t want that. David’s place is newer and nicer, and so they spend the next Tuesday moving in a few of Jamie’s things. He doesn’t completely shift and throw away his furniture and sell his flat, but he brings a good chunk of his clothes. They’re just leaving the shower when Jamie sees a new bottle of his cologne in David’s bathroom, right next to the half-empty Armani.

 

“I could just use yours, love, I don’t mind.”

 

“But I like how you smell,” David protests, “though I bet Armani would be incredible on you, too. Ah well, choose whatever you want, babe, I don’t mind. I just wanted you to have the option.”

 

Jamie quite likes that about David, that he’s considerate about things like that. It’s just one of the many things he likes about David.

 

 

\---

 

 

Jamie dreams about Gary one night, about warm brown eyes and dark hair, and how that dark hair plays off the pale sheets of his bed in the cool moonlight. Maybe moving into David’s wasn’t about the carpet or the stainless steel appliances as much as he’d thought. He wakes with a start in the middle of the night, and David’s arm is warm and ink-covered across him. There’s no moon tonight, but there’s a streetlamp outside, and it’s almost the same. His hair is golden blond, same as always, and it almost shimmers in the light, a more modest beauty than when the sun hits him, unstudied, careless, soft to the touch.

 

He tells David in the morning, because he knows he’s going to feel odd if he doesn’t, like he’s cheating or something, even if it was just a dream.

 

“I dream about him too, sometimes,” David confesses, “about being kids, and playing football, and winning trophies. That doesn’t mean I want to be with you any less, though.”

 

“Me too,” Jamie says. He grows more and more convinced of it every day. He thinks about Gary every day, maybe a few times a day, but a few thoughts a day isn’t much, really. David almost never leaves his mind at all.

 

He’s familiar with the process. He’s felt love fading before. It never _dies_ , not completely. Not for him. He just isn’t built that way. But it changes, though, becomes platonic, or fraternal. He still worries over Gary, in the same way he’d worried over everyone who’d left him. But David’s the one on his mind and on his lips and in his bed, and he’s not stupid enough to throw that away.

 

Not when David’s going through the exact same thing, if slightly different.

 

 

\---

 

 

“What is it like?” David asks him one day, when they’re laying on the sofa, watching something and kissing. David had lost his shirt at some point, in a crumpled pile on the ground. “What’s it like, Jaybird? Being left behind?”

 

The air stills between them. Jamie knows he doesn’t mean anything by it, knows David would never _knowingly_ hurt him, that it’s curiosity more than anything else. That David just wants to understand. It’s only fair, right? He’d asked him about leaving, and now David was asking about being left. It still hurts, though, to think about.

 

He still can’t look him in the eyes.

 

“It makes you feel small.” He looks at David’s chest as he speaks, taking in the exact shade of his nipple and committing it to memory. “You, um, you sort of get used to it, I guess. To being the one that cares more. Moving was just… it was never an option for me. I was lucky to even get into Liverpool’s first team, there were never any bids coming in from other clubs. And it’s different with different people. But when it happens with _everyone_ , when _everyone_ leaves you, it’s—the problem has to be with you, right? You’re good at maths, Becks. I’m the common variable in all the equations. Me and leaving. Makes sense that it’s connected, doesn’t it? So it must be me. And I know that doesn’t make sense, really, but maybe I drive people away, somehow, without realizing it?”

 

“That’s not why Stevie left,” David says gently, brushing Jamie’s hair back from his forehead.

 

“I know that,” Jamie says instantly, “Stevie just needed to get out of this fucking country, and he deserved to be able to. I don’t know how he managed another year after that fucking shitshow of a season followed up by the monumental clusterfuck of a World Cup… Stevie doesn’t count. He didn’t leave me. He just had to leave. For himself. It’s fucking stupid that I don’t get to talk to him as much anymore, but we still love each other, I know that.”

 

“And with Michael and Gary, you didn’t feel that?” David asks, pressing his lips to Jamie’s cheek, just to be there.

 

“Mickey left because he was young and stupid, and he didn’t come back because he didn’t learn from his mistake and he couldn’t stand a pay cut,” Jamie says, the words harsh, “he didn’t love me enough to stay, and he didn’t love me enough to come back. And he called every year during the summer and on me birthday and Christmas. Sent me into a fucking tailspin every time I heard his voice. Used to jump into bed with Stevie for a couple of days after. He used to worry. I hated that, making Stevie worry. He had enough on his shoulders.” Jamie sighs a little bit, long and sad. He turns to stare at the television. “It was five years of false hopes. He’d ask me to get him back, ask me to talk to the manager… And I did. Made a damn fool outta myself in front of Rafa every single year. Like a fucking idiot. And then at the end, he chose United. I hated him for awhile. You hate them for awhile, once they’ve left you.”

 

“Do you think Gary hated me when I left?”

 

Jamie looks away from him, the refusal to answer an answer in itself. “I’m sure he got over it, love. He didn’t hate you when I got to MNF, at least.”

 

It’s silent for a few seconds.

 

“I hate him for leaving,” Jamie whispers. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hating him for leaving.”

 

David kisses him again, Armani cologne heady in Jamie’s nose. Jamie takes in the scent and tries his best to lose himself in his—in his David, he supposed, since there was no other word for it.

 

 _I hate him too,_ David thinks with surprising clarity, just before he kisses Jamie again, _I love him, and I’ll always love him, but I hate him too, and I don’t know if that’s for my sake or yours._

 

It’s a lie. He knows very well whose sake it’s for. After the choices he’d made, he couldn’t possibly begrudge Gary the same ones. And if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here, snogging Jamie Carragher on his sofa, moving to straddle him. But he can begrudge Gary _this_ , this man in his arms who’s doing his best to hold it together with second best because his lover had abandoned him for sunny skies and silverware.

 

 

\---

 

 

David cooks for them. It’s one of the ways he knows how to show affection, and he and Jamie can’t exactly go out to fancy restaurants, even if he wants to, and drive-thrus are only good for so long. He’s a natural in the kitchen, in his element at the stove just as much as on the pitch, and Jamie helps as much as he can, meticulously chopping onions and laughing when David kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He’s fascinated by the way David is an intuitive chef—it reminds him of his mother, how she’d used to get frustrated when he’d call to ask for help because she didn’t _think_ in ounces and teaspoons like he did. David doesn’t think in measurements, either.

 

When David’s birthday comes around, Jamie wants to do something. It’s hard to buy a gift for the man who’s got everything, after all. He’s watching David make them lunch when it hits him. _Dinner_. He’ll cook for him.

 

It’s a great idea, of course. Theoretically. Jamie can do a decent pasta, and he knows how to do chicken, fish, and steak, but not much more than that, though he’s got a pretty decent track record of following recipes. He sits and thinks about it, for awhile. He wants it to be something special. David’s lived in Spain, France, and Italy, as well as England and the US, so cooking for him isn’t exactly _easy_.

 

David’s birthday is on a Monday, and they’ve got a show, so he’s got to cook in advance. He considers it, and decides he needs a couple of days to practice. So he tells David he’s got to go home to visit his family for a couple days, and pretends not to see the flicker of disappointment cross his face as he kisses him goodbye.

 

He spends almost the entire weekend running back and forth to the grocery store and in his kitchen. Redders is happy enough to sit and taste every single dish and wise enough (or perhaps kind enough) not to ask too many questions. He just watches Jamie fuss and takes the practice attempts home to feed his family (after ascertaining that they’re actually edible).

 

Jamie settles on a gazpacho to start, mostly because it’s easy, though that probably means it’s just as easy to screw up. He personally believes soup should be warm, if not hot, but hey, it’s Spanish, so he’ll do it for David. He’s more confident about the entrée—he can do a solid pasta, he knows that. He normally does tomato sauce, but he shifts to a creamier alfredo, so it doesn’t clash with the tomato in the gazpacho. He adds chicken, because David likes it better than fish, and seasons it generously with oregano and basil and whatever else he feels like, tasting after each addition. Redders likes it well enough, and he quite likes it himself, so he considers it a success.

 

He looks up directions for crème brulée, but after four failed attempts, he gives in and phones Thierry. Bless him, he comes over and basically makes it for him, even brings the ramikins because he knows Jamie won’t have any. He pulls them out of the oven and puts them in the fridge, raising his eyebrows at the abundance of food in the fridge.

 

“’Zis is a lot of food for one, Carra.”

 

“Shut up, Thierry. I owe you one.”

 

“Good. I’m calling it in now. ‘Oo is zis all for?”

 

Jamie flushes. “Becks,” he mutters, nudging him towards the door.

 

Thierry resists Jamie’s less-than-subtle shoves, and looks at him, face serious. “I’m glad, Jamie. It’s time, I think, no?”

 

Jamie swallows and pushes away the intrusive memory of dark hair on his pillow, the scent of Calvin Klein cologne. It’s the first time he’s thought about Gary all day, and that makes him feel a peculiar mix of guilty, afraid, and glad, somehow, like he’s capable of moving on.

 

Besides, he _likes_ Armani. He likes him a lot.

 

 

\---

 

 

Jamie insists they go back to his flat after the show, for reasons David can’t quite get his head round. He barely even _lives_ there anymore. But Jamie whines and pouts and looks into his eyes, and David’s only a man, after all. Something about Jamie acting like that renders him utterly powerless. He agrees, laughing and pressing a kiss to Jamie’s mouth in the empty dressing room.

 

“Okay, you sit down and watch telly, and I’ll get the takeout menus, we can order in. Does that sound good?”

 

They don’t normally order in, but then today’s a special day. Maybe Jamie’s just a low-key birthday celebrator. That’s okay. That’s fine. David’s been surrounded by big gestures-types all his life. It’s nice to be normal for once. To have a normal day for once.

 

“Sounds perfect, love.”

 

Jamie’s gone for a long time, but David chalks it down to the move, to being unable to find things now that they’ve been jumbled around.

 

“Do you need help?” he calls into the kitchen.

 

“No, baby, I’m fine! I know they’re here somewhere! Just relax and watch your show, I’ve got it!” Jamie calls back, ladling the cool gazpacho into bowls and setting the table. He sets the pasta, already mixed in with sauce and the chicken, into a dish in the oven to warm up a bit—it should be warm by the time they finish the first course, and then the crème brulée is ready to eat, of course, courtesy of Thierry Henry.

 

“Actually, babe, could you come help me? I just can’t find them!”

 

“James, they’re probably just—“ David starts, walking into the room.

 

Jamie runs over and covers his eyes before he can see anything. He walks him towards the table, set for two and as nice as Jamie could make it look. There’s even a single rose in a slender vase, because he didn’t think David would like flowers, but in case he did…

 

“Happy birthday, Davey, love,” he says, uncovering his eyes. David is struck silent. They’re both still wearing their suits, albeit without the jackets and ties. “I know it’s not much, but you’re really hard to shop for. I mean it. You should shop for yourself, because honestly, none of the rest of us has a damn clue what you could _possibly_ want—“

 

David turns around and hugs him, tight. “Did you order this in advance? You must’ve, J, it looks incredible, really. It’s perfect! Everything’s perfect. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

 

“Didn’t order it,” Jamie says, flushing a little. David pulls back to look him in the eyes. “You know how I said I had to visit my family this weekend? I was just practicing. Practiced Saturday, and Sunday I did this. Wasn’t just me, though, someone helped me with the dessert. Wanted to give you something. Something to celebrate you. You’re—you’re important to me, Davey-boy.”

 

David’s eyes grow a little misty and he kisses him, one hand on his cheek and the other on his neck, swallowing past the lump in his throat to thank him.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jamie jokes, “you haven’t tried it. Might be terrible.”

 

“Even if it was, I’d finish every last drop.” Jamie recognizes the look on his face. It was the same expression he’d worn whenever Gary’d tried to make him breakfast and burned the eggs and he’d eaten every last bite and thanked him for it. His breath catches in his throat, almost overwhelmed for a second.

 

“Uh, I brought wine, too. And champagne, if you want, since we’re celebrating? But this and the entrée are pretty different, so we’re going to have to have different wines. Redders said it’d be better than ruining everything by messing up the wine.” David smiles. Jamie pulls his chair out for him and he sits down. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. I would’ve been fine getting takeaway.”

 

Jamie waves away the words. “It’s your birthday, love, and you’re not having a party, you’re just spending it at home with me. Least you deserve is a decent dinner. Which hopefully you will get, because if this doesn’t work out, I’ll buy you something from a nice restaurant, I promise.”

 

Jamie double checks the bottle before he opens it, and pours some wine into both their glasses before he sits down.

 

“What made you choose gazpacho?” David asks curiously.

 

“I… can’t really say? But you’ll see why I chose the things I chose when we’re done, I hope.”

 

David laughs, deep and throaty and rich, and the conversation flows well, and they finish the soup just as the pasta finishes warming up.

 

“Put these bowls in the sink for me, sweetheart?” Jamie asks, absently dropping a kiss to David’s hair as he walks past him to the oven.

 

David rises to do just that, and watches Jamie chew his lip while carefully portioning out the pasta, sprinkling some parmesan on top and adding a dash of oregano just for the look of it.

 

“Now, it’s a different wine for this, but it’s still white,” Jamie says anxiously, “do you think we need fresh glasses? And I—I didn’t realize this, but I forgot napkins! Honestly, Redders is such a disgrace. I feed him, I feed his wife and kids, and the man can’t even remind me to buy napkins? Ridiculous—“

 

David laughs again, wrapping his arms around him. “It’s brilliant already. The food is brilliant. You’ve done everything perfectly. So what if we haven’t got any napkins? We can use paper towels, it’s fine. And the same glass is probably fine, but we can use fresh ones if it makes you feel a little better about it.”

 

Jamie relaxes against him, resting his head on David’s shoulder and taking a deep breath. “Wanted it to be perfect, that’s all. Practiced all day Saturday.”

 

“It’s not less perfect just because we’re using paper towels, James. I promise you that.”

 

David gushes over the pasta, and Jamie beams, each word melting away the anxiety a little more. They play footsie under the table and it’s almost ridiculous, how natural it all feels, even though Jamie’s never done this before, not for anyone. Gary hadn’t been big on birthdays. He liked getting football books and birthday cakes and pizza, and wearing old t-shirts. This—this is something else.

 

“Okay, close your eyes for dessert, I have to do a bit to set it up—“

 

“Babe, I’m so full. I can’t. I want to, I do, I just _can’t_.”

 

“We can share one, if you want. But you have to try it, Davey! Please. For me. This was the hardest bit, it took me five tries and two phone calls to get it right.”

 

David closes his eyes obligingly and when he opens them, the room is dark, lit by the light of one candle, planted carefully into a strawberry that’s been placed on the surface of the crème brulée so as not to break it.

 

A warm weight settles across his lap. David slings his arm around Jamie’s waist to steady him, and Jamie wraps an arm across his shoulders. He clears his throat.

 

“ _Happy birthday to you_ ,” He sings with a low, crackly voice, uncertain. It’s nothing like his usual voice, and it’s almost more precious than the dinner, the way Jamie’s letting him see this. “ _Happy birthday to you, happy birthday, my dear Daveeey, happy birthday to you_.”

 

David kisses him when he finishes and Jamie laughs softly. “You’re meant to blow out the candle, Davey-boy. Make a wish and all that.”

 

David looks at him, the way shadows dance over his face in the candlelight. _I don’t have anything I want right now_. But it sounds ridiculous, even in his head. “I—I can’t say anything, or I’ll sound stupid and cliché.”

 

“You know,” Jamie says lightly, leaning against him, “if you can’t think of anything else, you can always wish for another couple million quid. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

 

David laughs and closes his eyes. He imagines Jamie’s face, and a cake with a lot of candles, and a warm body next to his, and a green toothbrush, and Armani cologne on Jamie’s skin, and he takes a deep breath in and blows.

 

The room is dark, with the candle out. Jamie kisses him again, and again, and he tastes of white wine and creamy alfredo sauce, and then suddenly he gets up and walks across the room in the dark, sure-footed in the familiar space. David hears the floorboards creaking under his feet, and blinks a few times when Jamie flicks on the light. There are two spoons on the table next to the crème brulée.

 

“I’ll let you have the strawberry, pretty boy,” Jamie teases, settling back onto David’s lap before setting the candle aside and feeding him the strawberry. “But then I get to break the top bit. Thierry helped me with these, y’know. And he loaned me these little baking cup things. You’re lucky, I would’ve had nothing but those little foil things. I tried it all day Saturday, love, and eventually Redders wouldn’t even eat it anymore, just took it home to his family. Don’t worry, though, they’re not ill or anything.”

 

“You’re a brilliant cook, J. Quit saying you’re going to make people sick, it’s not true.”

 

“That’s just because Redders taste-tested everything.”

 

David rolls his eyes. They only manage half of the crème brulée between them. Jamie pulls a small box out of his pocket and David’s heart stutters in his chest for a moment.

 

“Oh god, no, Davey-boy, don’t worry, it’s not that! It’s not _that_ , love, I promise,” Jamie says hastily, catching his expression. He pulls out a box and opens it to show him a pair of silver cufflinks, embossed with an elegant graphic design, all curves. “They’re engraved,” Jamie murmurs, turning them over. _For DB_ , the first one says. _From JB_ , finishes the other. “Davey-boy, or David Beckham, I guess, lucky, that, isn’t it? That and Jaybird,” Jamie murmurs, kissing his cheek. “Honestly, babe, I had no idea what else to get you. You really are fucking impossible to shop for. I asked the lads, thought Redders might know seeing as how he’s pretty, too, but he had no idea. Figured this wouldn’t be too bad, at least. I’ll buy you something else, though, if you want.”

 

David laughs. “These are great, J, really. Thank you.” Jamie beams at him and accepts a thank you kiss before they go up to bed.

 

(In the unfun, tired-old-men sort of way, because they’ve had a show and Jamie’d been on edge for three days trying to make this dinner perfect and David had found he’d gotten used to having Jamie next to him, and missed him when he was gone.

 

Also they’re both incredibly full and sex is by far too much exertion.)

 

“Why’d you put so much into this, J?” David asks just before his body goes into a food coma.

 

“You’re my lad, Davey-boy.”

 

“No, love,” David’s certain that there’s more to it, though he doesn’t quite know _how_ he knows that to be true. “You were so anxious about it, and you got so upset about the napkins… You’ve been jittery all day today.”

 

“Wanted to make sure it went okay. I just wanted to make you happy today, David. Like you make me happy every day,” Jamie murmurs, pecking his cheek, “don’t want you leaving me for someone more fun, do I? Or a better gift giver. Had to make up for the stupid cufflinks with a perfect dinner.” It’s a joke, but it falls flat, and David feels a pit form in his very full stomach.

 

“Wouldn’t leave you. _Won’t_ leave you. Stop worrying about that. I’m not going to leave.”

 

Jamie stays quiet, and David doesn’t need to ask what he’s thinking.

 

“I want to make the most of our time together, at least,” Jamie whispers, “until it runs out.”

 

David clutches him close. Words can only do so much, and he knows where he falls short.

 

“Thank you for my birthday, love. It was the best I’ve ever had. We should do this next year, too.”

 

“It was Spanish for the appetizer, for Madrid,” Jamie murmurs, “and then Italian, for when you were at Milan, and then French, for PSG. Thought five courses would be a bit much.”

 

“Oh, James. I—“ _love you, I think. It’s too soon, I know, but then, how could I not, a man like you?_ “—am _so_ lucky you’re mine.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno how I feel about this one, guys, but I hope you like it! :) please drop me a line to let me know what you think or if you have any questions!
> 
> (and yes, there was a hint of Iker in this with the keeper's gloves, but I know so, so little about any of that situation that I just kept it at that)
> 
> title is from Amber Run's song I Found, as are the following lyrics: 
> 
> And I'll use you as a warning sign  
> That if you talk enough sense, then you'll lose your mind  
> And I'll use you as a focal point,  
> So I don't lose sight of what I want  
> ...  
> And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be  
> Right in front of me.


End file.
